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Chances are, You nor I will ever get to own a Black Card. 

I never really knew any rich kids growing up. Rich in that I mean million $ rich. I did know a few whose parents were doing upper middle class “well.” Those parents usually owned a few rental properties and along with their job and could afford nicer things vs. the other parents in our neighborhood who had to make due with one source of income, their jobs.

My first introduction to a spoiled rotten kid of well off parents was Michael Simoneau. His Dad drove a purple Cadillac DeVille...yes, purple. We all called it the PimpMobile. He was one of those short guys whose head barely could see over the dashboard and the steering wheel in comparison to him, looked like the steering helm to an 1850's Yankee Clipper ship.

Michael was the youngest of two brothers. His older brother was much older, by about ten years which means there was no real sibling rivalry or friendship. When there's that much distance in age the two have little in common. Why hang around with one another? This made Michael an only child in a greater sense.

We'd see him on occasion, out in his driveway with his cool toys, bikes or whatnot and being kids, we naturally gravitated to him because of his shiny baubles. When I got to know him, barely, he had been turned into mean-spirited, spoiled “No! It's MINE” type of child. Not very fun to be around.

He had the best bike in the world then. At the time, we po' kids were riding Murray's or BMXs that were banged up due to mostly our treating them like shit (we were boys, we ruin things). He had one of those “choppers” that was made by Schwinn that aped the old 70's chopper motorcycles. I remember it was there on the sidewalk, on it's kickstand when I wanted to get a closer look. I wasn't about to ride it, just look. When Michael saw me approach it he ran over yelling, “NO! DON'T YOU TOUCH IT!”

He then walked the bike to his backyard and slammed the fence gate closed behind him for added insult.

Now back then, when I was that kid and still thin skinned, I was hurt by that rebuke. I couldn't understand what I had done. I had no intention of riding it, wrecking it or doing anything to it. I guess the absolute, solid “NO” is what got me.

“Ah...Fuck him.” said Kenny to me, who saw the whole thing.

Mike Simoneau never really had friends as far as I could tell. Well, none here in this neighborhood. He was too abrasive to even be near long enough. Occasionally his path would cross with our little crew as we aged from childhood to our teen years and still he was the same kid. Just as nasty and selfish as you would get.

In his late teens, he thought he be a cool, low level pot dealer and tried his luck at it. No go. He was ripped off by suppliers that populated Slater Park back in the early 80's. I swear they stiffed him as a joke and not motivated by any financial reason. I guess however he did manage to score a pound or two and then tried to sell it. I'm sure for exorbitant prices. The trick to succeeding in any blackmarket economy is to have a street sense to spot danger. Mike had none. He was finally busted after being pulled over. Never mind he had pot in his car, it was the Beretta pistol he had under his seat that got him nailed. Dummy. He ended up doing a few months in the ACI for that. I wondered by his parents never did hire expensive attorneys for that one? I have no idea what his relationship was with them. Perhaps they gave up on him?

When he got out, he further spiraled into petty thievery and was incompetent at that too. Back to the ACI for another round of abuse. I heard he was finally diagnosed with some mental condition by the Dr's there and then put into some Halfway House. Do I believe the Dr's were right to diagnose him as nuts? I do after I randomly ran into him at the House of Pizza.

“Hey Ronnie” I heard said from behind me as I was ordering a pepperoni pizza there.

I turned around and saw this short, grossly obese guy. It's the kind of obesity where even his fingers were fat. I recognized him even though he had changed so much. I bet it was all the meds they had him on that made him look so swollen. Want to know where your old clothing goes after you dump it into the Good Will box? Well, he was wearing it. I'm no fashion guru but I do know how to match clothing. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and far too long baby blue nylon shorts that extended nearly to his ankles.

I'll ask very probing questions of people at times, even bordering on intrusive because I'm so damned curious. So I asked him “Where is he living and what he's doing now...how's his Dad and did he keep buying rental properties?”

“I live in the New Horizon's Halfway house now. The state gives me $25 a day. I walk all around Pawtucket and buy cigarettes, scratch tickets and coffee...I don't care...I like it. My Dad owns seven places now...sometimes I cut the grass there for a few bucks.” I began to regret I had asked him anything as the vibe I was getting off of him just didn't feel right.

I rarely feel my skin creep. I've seen a lot of stuff in my life due to my old occupation in mental health. But my internal radar was going berserk after meeting this kid again. I was glad when they called out my number and I paid for the pizza and left with quick, “Nice meetin ya, hope to see you again” and I bolted out to my car. On occasion, I'll see him walking the streets of Pawtucket and am glad he doesn't recognize my car.

**

My other brush with rich kids was when I was an adult. Martin Woolf was the son of a materials science engineer (ceramics) who had his own small business out in woods of Foster. His Dad was the scary-kind-of-smart in that he could manufacture anything out of any kind of material. He had contracts all over the world for very specialized parts needing to be made out of things like oxygen-free copper or ceramic material that would withstand God's Wrath on Doomsday. Before I knew Martin, his Dad scored a near lifetime contract for parts used on the Apollo missions and then the Space Shuttle. I once saw a spool of wire, all 24 feet of it, that went for $5,000 and was being sent to Kennedy space center in Florida. What it is supposed to do I don't know.

Dad did very well, dollar wise. When I got to know Martin, his family was drowning in money. I suspect the banks wouldn't take any more of the damn stuff.

Growing up rich, Martin concedes, was not the best thing for him. He remembers being unceremoniously dumped off at a the grammar school portion of Phillips Exeter without being told what was going to happen to him. Phillips Exeter is one of those incredibly restrictive private schools where you have to be rich and capable of being smart as a whip. Martin was no dummy and his Dad had the bucks. Hey presto! Instant acceptance.

“My Dad drove up to the administrative building at Exeter, pulled out a suitcase I had no idea he had packed from the trunk and told me this is where I would be living for the next few years...Talk about a blow. My Mom...was too stoned on valium to put up a fight. I got a kiss from her and then sent through the doors.”

I tell him I have heard stories like that but have never met anyone who was pawned off on a nanny or sent to some Swiss school during the summer, so the rich parents can be unburdened while they take a whirlwind trip through Asia. He then asks me to shake his hand. “There, you've shaken hands with a kid who was sent away so his parents could be “unburdened.”

Dad eventually dies and splits the will ½ and ½ with the son and wife. She getting the cash assets and the son getting cash and the business...which he promptly sold once probate was done. He didn't have the expertise to make wire out of diamond dust nor was he interested in managing a crew of other engineers who are really a pain in the ass to get along with. Final score. He walks away with enough money to live silly comfortable for the rest of his life.

With this money he builds a McMansion in Foster that sorta looks similar to a Hogwarts type of house. Also, he had statues around the outside which represented Egyptian and African war gods, all cement...not the nice marble kind. No matter, he knew where to find people who would cast something like this, if paid well. He spent his unemployed days starting trust-fund type occupations to while away the hours of a bored son of a zillionaire.

Wedding photography, writer, cabbie, vacation planner...all of which came to no good end as each occupation requires you commit to the customer. That's no fun if you're rich to begin with. Why show up at a job you contracted for when you can go see the Dead in Halifax, Nova Scotia that weekend? I swear these attempts at “career” were just half heart-ed attempts at trying to seem normal.

The other revaluation that stunned me a bit was Martin's admitting he had seizures all the time now.

“Grand mal ones?” I ask.

“No, cocaine ones.” he says matter of factly.

He goes on to say he started to get them when he was 20. He was 33 now when I knew him and I thought that a bit too early for death. “Ahh...I've been tooting for over a decade now, nearly every day...I know what the problem is.” He did. He wasn't dull...just emotionally wrecked is all.

Raised rich. Dumped off in New England's best school. Interest and capital gains checks arriving via mail every month. 33 and one failed marriage, a drug induced brain disorder and still a spoiled brat kid inside. He's near my age now, nearing 50 at least...wonder if he's still alive? I have no idea.

If I was given all that I wanted, or the ability to gain as much, I'd beat the shit out of it. I know I would. Give me a blank check with a few lawyers backing me up and I'll go commit felonies I couldn't get away with now. I guess I'm lucky with a Dad who rose from three decker Depression era housing and managed to secure himself some sort of success in life...but not too much.